Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Nuranar]

Tarondo's horse, maddened by the darts of the orcs, had carried him past the clearing where the stone trolls stooped. Hurriedly checking the animal, he wheeled and plunged back into the fracas. Tarondo had rarely fought on horseback before. Although he had a considerable advantage over the dismounted orcs, it took all his skill to control his terrified mount. All his faculties were focused on riding and striking at the orcs that rose up before him.

An orc, trying to even the odds, flung itself forward, wooden spear aimed for the horse. Just in time Tarondo parried, splintering the weapon. Even as he lopped off the orc's head, he heard a dull thud. Glancing up as a flicker of movement caught his eye, he saw one of the statues move. An instant of bewildered disbelief, then Tarondo spurred his horse... But that instant cost him dear. A huge arm, broken on impact, ricocheted off the ground and struck the horse broadside.

The force of the impact threw Tarondo to earth. Rolling over, he grasped for his sword and scrambled to his feet. Abruptly Thoronmir staggered into him, an arrow in his arm. "He's good!" the Ranger gasped. "Up there - he has a bow."

"Let me at him!" growled a rough voice in his ear. Osric stood at his elbow, spattered with orc blood.

Tarondo looked up the hill and saw the dark figure of an orc, looking for another target. Even as Tarondo sprang forward, Osric on his heels, the orc saw him. Tarondo saw the gleam in his eye as he sighted down the arrow for one instant. Even as his mind told his feet to dodge, he knew it was too late.

Just as released the taut string, a Troll-flung boulder sliced the air between them. The next instant something struck Tarondo hard just above the knee. The joint buckled immediately and his momentum slammed him into the hill. Osric rushed past without a glance.

Then the pain hit, biting and clawing, as if the arrowhead were burrowing in with malevolent energy. Clenching his teeth, Tarondo grasped the shaft and wrenched the arrow out. Swiftly he tore cloth from his tunic and bandaged the wound. Even as he stood, leaning on his sword for support, his eyes turned not up the hill but down. Where is Luinien?

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan’s only thought was to cleave his way through to the other side of the clearing. He fought as he could from the saddle of his mount, slashing savagely at the Orcs who darted in with their jagged edged swords. Several had scored glancing blows against his boots and one bowman had driven an arrow into his thigh. He was wearying. The twisting and turning from side to side had torn open the gash in his flank; he could feel the blood beginning to seep from the saturated bandage and run down his side.

Two Orcs went down beneath his blade as they rushed him. Another rushed forward, slashing Veryadan’s horse hard across the chest. The horse reared, finishing off the Orc under his sharp hooves. The Ranger saw a small opening in the ranks of the attackers and kicked his horse hard in the flanks. He’d almost made it to the far side when some large missile hit his left shoulder and knocked him from his mount. He clung to the sword in his right hand as the force of the blow made him skid along the dirt on the clearing floor. He pushed himself to an upright position, just in time to see one of the Trolls bring down his horse with a blow from his large club.

As he bent to rip the horse’s leg from its shoulder, the Troll’s back was to Veryadan. Mustering what strength was left to him, the Ranger charged the Troll, his blade leveled at the back of the creature’s leg. He drove it in, forcing it deep with the weight of his body behind it. The Troll roared at the pain, his leg buckling beneath him. With a blind blow at the man behind him, the Troll sent Veryadan reeling back against the unyielding leg of one of the Stone Trolls, the man’s sword clattering from his hands as his body came to an abrupt stop.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater hit the ground face-first and took a mouthful of dried leaves and dirt. He spun around and discovered that Thoronmir was injured – the shaft and feathered end of an arrow sticking out of his arm. The ranger was learning against a large stone outcrop, face turning deathly white and sweating as he fought hard to catch his breath.

Loudewater scrambled onto his feet and rushed to his injured companion’s side.

“Thoronmir! You are wounded!”

There was nothing much the panicky farmer could do. He could dress little cuts or create slings for broken arms, but to assist one who has been injured by a dart of war was beyond him. Loudewater was gripped by a sense of lost as he looked around for the other riders, hopping that someone had seen the incident and was coming to their aid.

But that was not to be. The ambush was far greater than it was at Weathertop and every single rider was fighting desperately for his or her own life against overwhelming odds. As Loudewater looked about terror-struck, he saw the pathetic corpse of Thoronmir’s young companion – Menecar, face down and lying motionless. There was a gapping wound on late ranger’s head where fresh blood poured out profusely surrounding the body in a crimson pool.

Through the din of clashing blades and demonic war howls, Loudewater’s hearing picked out deep grunting that was getting louder and louder. He looked in the direction where the sound was coming from and saw to his horror that a huge orc was bounding towards him and Thoronmir. The beastly humanoid was getting closer and closer with every movement of its greatly muscled limbs and the deadly glare of its feral yellow eyes filled him with a sense of dread.

Loudewater shrieked in terror as he back stepped clumsily and crushed into the wounded Thoronmir who grunted in pain. Loudewater turned back and saw the brave ranger grimacing in pain as he valiantly attempted to step forwards and engage this new foe.

It came to him uninvited and unexpected when Lenny taunted him…

The orc came closer and as he did, it raised a huge black scimitar and roared triumphantly,

It came to him on the morning after and infused him with great happiness and hope…

There were new orcs who had found their nerves under this new leader and there were also advancing, with less confidence but nevertheless, still advancing.

It deserted him at Weathertop and left him witless and timidly again…

“Loudewater! Get behind me!” Thoronmir commanded as he mustered his strength to overcome the poisonous barb. The orcs were getting closer, some were flanking out to the sides. Loudewater and Thoronmir were like fish caught in a closing net.

And now it’s back with a vengeance…

“NO!” Loudewater roared in a voice that was not his own. Pushing the injured ranger back, he leapt and placed himself before the orc and its intended prey.

The great beast came to a clattering halt and faced the farmer hesitantly. This was an unusual prey. A prey whose eye’s known shone mad with a maniacal fire.

“Get back you brute! Or… or face the fiery of Andas Loudewater, man of Bree!” stammered the farmer excitedly as he drew his dagger out from its sheath. The blade, Loudewater noted with some satisfaction, seemed to glimmer with the faint quicksilver.

“Luurrggwarger… luurrgwarger?” repeated the mystified huge orc silently. It body suddenly convulsed uncontrollably. Suddenly, it threw its mane covered head back and howled with hysterical laughter. It was laughing at Loudewater’s name. The rest of the lesser orcs joined in. They started chanting his name in jest.

The hood of Loudewater’s cope covered the eyes of his lowered head. The dagger hilt held so tightly that the farmer’s hand was trembling.

“Do you think that’s funny brute? Do you think my name is funny, beast? DO YAH, YOU PIECE OF DEAD MEAT! ARRAGGHH!!!!!”

Loudewater leapt forwards faster than he ever recalled moving before. By sheer inertia and surprise he crashed into the huge orc and knocked it over. With uncanny reflexes, he actually got the better of the orc and sat on its barrelled chest in a schoolboy pin. The thrashing orc tried to push the farmer off him, but adrenaline gave Loudewater a burst of strength and he continued to pin the orc under him. Sensing that it’s doom was near, the great orc did what its kind could only do under such circumstances.

It whimpered.

But fate has dealt the orc a cruel deck. For here was not Loudewater, the gentle farmer from Bree. This was Loudewater the angel of death. This was Loudewater struggling with a bad bout of midlife crisis.

“Whimper? You brute?” asked Loudewater sardonically in an unusually calm and quiet voice,

“It doesn’t matter, because today is a very good day to die. Remember this day well beast, FOR IT HAS BEEN YOUR LAST!”

With that last shout, Loudewater raised his dagger high and with all the fiery and strength he could muster, plunged it into the face of the beast. The immense blow split the bulbous nose of the creature in half and drove through the skull, crushing dense bone with unusual strength. Bearing resistance to the tip of the dagger suddenly reduced and the farmer found himself being able to drive his blade further in with ease. All the while, the orc’s body thrashed in its death throes about like a marionette whose strings were being jerked about. The dying body went into uncontrollable spasms and started defecating as it lost control of its bowel functions. Strong paws grasped at anything they could get a hold off and found Loudewater’s thighs and even then their strength faded and finally went limp.

As loudewater finally wrenched the dagger from the puncture he created, a jet of black ichor emitted from the cavity of the skull splashed onto Loudewater’s face, covering him in orcish life essence. Loudewater licked at the hot steaming liquid and smiled. He relished the taste.

Like hydraulic pistons, the arms of Loudewater continued to pull and plunge his dagger into the smashed head of the orc. Loudewater laughed as he continued the mutilation.

[Esgallhugwen]

The unsettling silence was broken by the swift wailing of arrows. Their horses grew mad with horror as they raced into the trees.

As a flurry of devilish orc arrows was loosed upon them the enemy set upon them in raging fury. Already the battle was being lost, as horses fell alongside their brave noble riders.

Falma reared breaking the neck of a slimy black rampaging orc. It didn't halt them for a moment, heaving grunts were heard before rocks and boulders were seen flying through the air.

As her companions were tossed about like play things of a reckless child she was nearly un-horsed by a creature howling with glee. Her sword quickly saw to the problem dismembering the head from the body.

Still another came flying at her, black sword in hand, her horse shrieking desperately trying to kick at it. A fleeting thougt of using her bow was extinguished, too close its too close, she frantically swiped at the orc with her blade, taking a slice out of his arm.

Though it cried out and backed away in pain, the orc seemed all the more enticed to take the Elf down. Yet again the orc came at her brandishing his curved sword, this time he wasn't so fortunate, the Elf cut the sword from his arm the hand still clinging to it; Falma in a rage picked up the nasty tasting orc with her mouth and whipped him into the air trampling him when he came wailing back to the ground.

Silrûth raced about her hair flying out behind her like a golden banner, frantically trying to find her companions through the debri and shouting. Two Stone Trolls had fallen and she could only fear the worst for her friends when Aidwain leapt by still on his horse.

She could not help but smile at his fortune.

Silrûth thought she heard the clear call of Luinen's voice, her attentions were turned to Tarondo who was galloping back to get Thoronmir. Her and Aidwain quickly turned their horses onto the enemy and engaged them as best they could.

With every stroke another orc was forcefully brought down by the skilled Elves, with every stroke they were slowly brought closer to escape.

[Alaksoron]

The whistling of arrows broke the eerie silence of the clearing. Osric's sword was in his hand in an instant, parrying arrows as he urged his mount forward with the rest of the group. He had just time to see Thoronmir's mount crumple beneath him, pincushioned, before a large orc with a curving dagger and a shield the size of a table tackled Osric from Shadow's back. Osric hit the ground with the incredible weight of the Orc atop him, knocking the wind out of him. They wrestled on the ground for a moment before one of Osric's knives found it's home in the foul creature's soft underbelly.

Throwing the creature off of him easily, Osric scrambled to his feet. An impossibly huge orc wielding an S-shaped sword the size of a door loomed up before him, snarling. Osric drove his sword through the heart and the tip come out his back. Drawing his sword out, he swiftly decapitated another Orc. Osric found himself beside Tarando and Thoronmir, who had an arrow in his arm. "He's good, up there with the bow." Thoronmir gestured to a tall Orc atop the hill. Without a word, Tarando and Osric set off at a run.

One of the Orc's arrows struck Tarando, knocking him down, but Osric was focused on his prey. He ran forward, faster than he had ever run before, intent on killing the Orc which wreaked such havoc. There was a sharp pain as one of the arrows crashed into Osric's leg just below the knee. Roaring in agony, Osric staggered the last few yards to stand before his enemy. With one clean slash he split the bow in half with his sword. Summoning his strength, he drove his fist into the Orc's face.

[Kransha]

Kransha wasn’t exactly used to pain. It had been a long time, perhaps too long, since the flames of physical distress had burned him. With a muted grunt, he swayed and lurched backward, feeling, and hearing, a sickly crunch of bone when a white-knuckled fist bashed his jaw. His jowls contorted irately as the orc staggered, and he let go of the shattered remnants of his bow, drawing both clawed hands to his face. Blood, sable and viscous, coursed over the backs of his hands, wound rivers down his arms, and dripped onto the trampled grass below, but Kransha sucked in the unwholesome substance and looked up just in time to see another fist coming at him, with the fire of a Man of Éothéod unwavering behind it. But, the orc, despite his wound, his loss of armament, and his severe disorientation, was ready for the blow as it came.

His bloodstained hand shot forward and up, the unclipped talons jutting from his bony fingers curling, vicious as the teeth of a wolf and closing. As the closed fist surged, Kransha’s cold digits closed, locking around the hand of the Rohirrim. Their came a stifled cry from the man, that would’ve have been a full-fledged scream of pain from any man who had not been trained as a warrior. Groaning as the fingers constricted, The Rohirrim fell to his knees, weakened by the wound to his leg and the hold on his hand. Kransha, his bloody mouth worming its way into an ignoble grin, wrenched the hand and arm back, twisting it about, but the Rohirrim did not react this time. Kransha’s meager tuft of an eyebrow arched curiously, but did not realize the reason for this lack of response until it was almost too late. From beneath the hunched over form, an arm bearing a sword shot out, thrusting swiftly at the orc’s chest. Kransha barely had the quickness in him to maneuver sideways and grab the wrist of the offending arm, pulling to aside to deject the blade. The Rohirrim, ignoring pain in hand and leg, struggled to his feet and pushed forward, forcing Kransha backward along the hillside at gaining speed until the two, still grappling, fell to the earth and rolled down the slope.

The two, caught in a wrestling match on the ground, crashed through shallow brakes as they tumbled onto level terrain. Locked together, they kicked at each other madly, but could not break free of their hold on each other. At last, a swift head-butt from the Rohirrim dislodged Kransha. Losing his grip, the uruk fell from his quarry, and slid into the grass, throwing himself up as soon as his legs would allow. He shook his head fiercely, effacing the numbness that diffused through his half-cracked skull. Thankfully, the orc’s bald cranium was brazen in its hardness, and he quickly recovered. Now, his hands each moved to his flanks, and from the taut belt that was wrapped around his waste he drew two blades, each of different size and type: one a scimitar-like weapon, curved and elegant, in an orcish way, the other a jagged knife, shorter and more vulgar, but just as deadly to the touch. Baring his teeth and clasping the pair of blades, Kransha plunged at the Rohirrim as he got to his feet. The orc’s first attack was blocked with a curt maneuver when the Rohirrim simply arced his blade upward, knocking the two knives away. Unfazed, Kransha swung again, and this time the jagged rungs of his knife latched onto the man’s flailing sword. The man tugged at his weapon, yanking Kransha forward so much that he did not gain the needed momentum to attack efficiently with his other knife. Again, the two found themselves locked, but standing this time. Each pull, each subtle tug carried the two about in circles and loops, but Kransha gained the upper hand and thrust his knife away from the sword of the man of Rohan as he turned again.

The effect of this tactic was both good and bad. The force of it was so great that Kransha lost his hold on his own blade, and the knife was propelled out of his sweat-soaked palm, but it also pulled the Rohirrim’s sword from him. Both weapons flew up and, still melded together as one, skidded to the ground just beneath one of the two remaining stone trolls. The Rohirrim, without hesitation, sprinted towards his needed sword where it lay beneath the troll. Kransha turned and tried to pounce upon him, but there was great strength in him, even as his leg leaked blood onto the grass, and Kransha could not catch up until the two of them had dashed through the battle that raged about them and reached the trolls. The Rohirrim dove and Kransha fell as well upon the lump of earth where the two serpentine weapons lay entangled. Kransha’s knife lanced downward, hoping to impale the wretched man where he landed, but the Rohirrim’s hand grabbed his sword and extricated it from the teeth of Kransha’s dagger, flinging himself sideways so that the iron tongue of the orc found only dirt to slay. Roaring with hellish fury, the orc turned on his knee, pulling up the blade in his position and taking his abandoned one from its bed beneath the troll, but he could not attack. The Rohirrim was already upon him.

Kransha pitched backward as a mad slash lopped at the air a hair’s breadth short of his throat. He found himself backed up against the creased leg and knee of the stone troll, who stood oblivious to all that occurred around him. Seeing, at that time, no other solution, Kransha laced his gangly arm around the solidified limb and swung himself backwards and around, pivoting onto the immobilized creature. He pulled his lightweight form onto the troll’s waist and balanced behind its leg as the sword of the Rohirrim jetted forward. The cold steel did not find Kransha, but it found the stone troll’s leg and speared through it, the very tip bursting out of the other side where Kransha was precariously balanced. The tip found the orc’s flesh, and penetrated, making a shallow stab wound in his stomach. With no more than an annoyed grunt, the orc fell from his perch, but as he lurched upward, he saw the man trying, very unsuccessfully, to remove his sword: it was stuck in the stone troll’s leg. Grinning, Kransha pounced, dismissing the pain from his injury, and struck the Rohirrim full in the face with the hilt of his knife. The man fell back, away from his sword, and the orc took this as his chance. Snaking around the stone troll, he swung his longer scimitar into a downward position and arched it down upon the Rohirrim foe…

But the blow never found its mark.

Kransha’s gaze was averted by a noise as his knife plunged. A troll, huge and galumphing, raucous in his course, suddenly flew between Kransha and his mark. The great, bulky form, danced awkwardly across the land, nearly crushing both combatants beneath it. Kransha did not know where it was going, but he had a feeling it did not know fully either. Either way, the wretched beast forced him to leap back with all his might, so as not to be crushed. As the troll passed, he dragged his terrible weapon behind him lazily, and it bashed against the stone troll who the live one had stumbled past. As the troll continued, reeling and swaying like a drunken man, the inanimate form that hung its side-turned head over Kransha reeled as well, and then its extended arm, already cracked, was marred by a rippling wave of splinters in the rock. The great arm instantly broke from its place at the troll’s shoulder and fell with a resounding thud onto the grass. Barely seconds later, the weakened figure, its foundations all but gone, quivered and sprawled face down on the field with a thunderous crash, sending up a geyser of dust and dirt that shot up, spraying the combatants, and several others nearby, with debris and a smoggy cloud that billowed over the terrain before promptly wafting up and away.

When the dust settled, Kransha looked up to see only one stone troll remaining, of the three that had been there before. He looked around, almost frantic, for his foe, but saw no Rohirrim amongst the crumbled boulders and shards of rock. The Rohirrim might have been crushed by the stone troll colossus, but Kransha doubted it – he knew better. Spitting darkly onto the wreck, he turned away and searched for new quarry, scanning the field, and poking carelessly at the bleeding hole in his stomach.

[Primrose Bolger]

Harry tried to stand. He shoved himself up on one arm and rolled up onto his good leg. He chanced a glance behind him; the puny man who’d stuck him in his knee lay on the ground. Breathing still, unfortunately, he noted, but looking quite the worse for wear. Grunting, Harry pushed himself up on his unaffected limb. ‘Ten steps,’ he thought to himself, ‘and I’ll pound that Tark into worm food. He lurched forward three steps, dragging his wounded leg behind him. The battle swarmed around him . . . and unfortunately in front of him. A group of Orcs, all armed with metal tipped lances, swarmed across his path as he took another step forward. He growled at them, swatting at them with his mighty arm. In a rage, they shook their staves at him, swirling round him closer and closer.

Those behind the Troll prodded him with the sharp tips of their lances, enraging him further. He brought his arm round with a roar, intending to drive them away. But with only one leg to balance on, he toppled over, falling face forward onto the Orcs. Five were caught beneath his massive bulk. Two of them managed to squirm out from under the fallen Troll, but three were crushed. One unseen outcome from this unfortunate encounter between Troll and Orcs was that several of the Orc lances had been plunged deeply into Harry’s innards as he fell on them.

Grimm and Broga were on the other side of the clearing. The Orcs, it seemed, had incapacitated a number of the men and Elves. Let them finish, thought Grimm. ‘Hey brother, what say we let them Orcs have their fun. Was some stew left, weren’t there? Down by the creek.’ He glanced around, looking for Harry. ‘You seen Harry,’ he asked Broga.

An outraged squeak escaped from Broga. He raised his hand, pointing with a stubby finger toward where Harry lay; the Orc lances sticking out from beneath him, along with a hairy Orc foot or two or three. ‘Them Orcs has gone and done him in!’

The two brothers went lumbering toward their downed relative, knocking Orcs from their path as they went. Two especially pugnacious Orcs rattled their swords, bellowing at the Trolls to move out of their way. Broga knocked them both down with his club. Grimm finished them off as he planted his big foot squarely in each of the Orc backs and stepped down hard, crushing them.

‘Come on, Harry,’ urged Grimm when they reached him. ‘These little toothpicks can’t have done you all that bad.’ The two brothers bent down and pulled Harry up, placing his arm across their shoulders.

‘Boys,’ he wheezed, limping along on his one good leg between his two rescuers, ‘I feel just about done for.’

Grimm, getting a firmer grip on Harry as he hoisted him up just a bit more, shushed the wounded Troll. ‘Save your breath. We’ll have you fixed up in no time. Why a cuppa your stew and them holes in your innards’ll be plugged good as new.’

Harry gazed at Grimm, a spark of hope in his glazed eyes. Broga, seeing the streams of blood oozing from Harry’s wounds, pressed his lips together and said nothing.